Woke up this morning with soot-darkened skies;
It's now breakfast time; he'll eat shepherds pies.
Turns on the light and then he rubs his eyes.
It's time to write some lines.

He was a stranger when he'd taken flight,
But he feels alright with people uptight.
With each work his vision grows much more dark—
Perhaps it's the lack of light.

CHORUS:
Hey, Mr. "Wasteland,"
You also wrote "Prufrock's Song";
They both are pretty damn long!
Hey, Mr. "Wasteland,"
You will never sail back on the tide.

Smoke from the chimneys made his lungs very seared,
And then as some feared, his ending was near.
Lungs deprived of wind, though he'd made his name;
He attained literary fame.

CHORUS